


Bury the Past

by Hino



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Featuring backstory and deceased people, Gen, Some Blood in the Water stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4657383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hino/pseuds/Hino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd never dug a grave before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury the Past

He’d never dug a grave before.

 

The shovel felt heavy in Sniper’s hand. His grip on the handle was tight and his shoulders hunched as it sat in the mound of dirt. The hole was shallow, only three feet.  
He needed to dig.  
They deserved the full six.

 

It was mid afternoon when he’d managed to dig deep enough. His arms were weak and his legs refused to work as he climbed out of the hole. Tossing the shovel aside, Sniper forced himself to his feet, gazing back at the pink wooden walls. He remembered painting them, listening to his Dad harshly instruct him not to miss any corners. Half the time, Sniper felt the old man only kept him around for his height. His Mum had come out and loudly complimented the new look, handing out glasses of lemonade and some chocolate biscuits. God, his Mum made the best biscuits. He was reaching for them when she dipped her finger in the paint and placed it on his nose.  
Never, in all his life as a mercenary, did he think his mother could outrun him.

 

Sniper clung to the wooden post supporting the pergola, trying desperately not to push it out of place. Vague memories of needing to fix it came to mind but he forced them out, trying not to let them clear up. It’d been his Dad that insisted on it happening.  
Why didn’t he just fix the damn post when the old man asked?  
With a shaky breath, he forced aching legs onwards, opening the creaky screen door and heading in. The scent of home cooking still lingered, having long since soaked into the walls. It’d be a long time before the smell of chicken and vegetables faded.

 

He headed up creaking stairs, each little sound bringing a memory. The first two steps reminded him of when he’d sneak to his room after a bad report card. Just because he couldn’t beat the living daylights out of some magpies in the spring, they decided he needed to fail. What did they expect of seven year olds?  
“Little Mundy? Are you home?” His mother called. He kept his mouth closed but the stairs cried for her attention under his feet. She’d turn, eyes like a hawk and with quick steps, a hand would be on his shoulder. “Do you have your report?”  
“Yeah.” His voice was tiny as he handed it over, waiting to be yelled at. The loud words never came. All he received was a tight hug and the soft murmur of “You tried and I’m proud.”  
The middle four stairs were when he was mad. Teenage years granted him height and not strength. In fits of anger, when his Dad was just pushing and his Mum was struggling to stop Sniper’s fuse from going off, he’d skip stairs and only hit the middle before slamming a door.  
The subtle half-creak on the top stair was the night he’d first left for RED. He stood at the top, debating whether to tell his parents or whether to vanish like he usually did. The slight whine of wood ended up waking them but he’d run out of the house before they could make it there.  
God, he wished he would have just waited.

 

It was a struggle up the stairs and he leant heavily on the wall, eyes trained on the door at the end of the hall.  
Their door.  
“Miss Pauling, you know I don’t like these jokes.”   
Sniper nervously began as he walked down the hall. It felt a million miles away and yet only a few inches, playing with his mind and making his heart tighten. “Administrator? I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone about my work. You can, you can stop this now.”  
He gripped the door handle and took a breath before pushing it open, as if this time it was going to look different, like the sight that had filled him with shock and sent him to dig graves with mind in a deep fog was just some fever dream.  
It wasn’t a dream. It didn’t look different.  
They were still on the bed, laying peacefully together. Their hands were interlocked, Mum’s head on Dad’s chest. It looked like they’d fallen asleep to the radio again, like the many times Sniper had stuck his head in when meaning to invite them down for some marshmallows in the fireplace during winter.  
“Mum, you need to get up. Dad, we’ve got to make sure the fences are fixed. Can’t expect me to do it myself.” Sniper tried to smile as he walked over to the bed, forcing his eyes to skim over the discolouration of the skin or the slowly blooming scent of rot. “Mum, come on now. You promised me that we’d make some shepherd's pie for dinner. I can’t peel potatoes to save my life, you know.” He set a hand on her shoulder and immediately regretted it, feeling how cold her skin was. “Mum! Stop messing with me! Come on Dad, tell her! You hate it when she plays these games, don’t you-”  
A choked sob worked its way up as his other hand reached for the man on the bed, the chill of his skin shocking Sniper. “Dad. Dad, get up. I- I broke your favourite mug. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

 

He waited.  
Silence answered.  
Sniper didn’t even know he was crying until he felt something warm touch his hand. For a second, hope bloomed, only to wither as he noticed the tiny drop on his skin, followed by more. He wailed as he shook them both in a desperate attempt to rouse them, trying to ignore how his Mum’s head limply rocked from side to side and how his Dad’s hand slowly slipped off his chest and onto the bed.  
Before, he thought it’d been one of the many nightmares he’d had about Gray Mann finding his home and taking his parents from him.  
Now it was much more horrifying.  
He could stop robots. He could stop multi-millionaire crazed maniacs.  
He couldn’t stop nature.

 

It took longer than he cared to admit to push back the tears. Carefully, he lifted his Mum into his arms, holding her close. She was limp and cold in his arms but the only thing he could notice was the slight smile on her lips. At least she’d gone peacefully. The moment he stepped out of the bedroom, the world began to blur, coming in snapshots that he vaguely registered.  
Top of the stairs.  
Back door.  
Gently setting her down.  
The world became clear again when he stood at the top, trying again to wipe away the tears that refused to stop. They stung and he tugged the sleeves of his shirt down, using those to dry his eyes. Taking a few breaths to calm himself down, he turned back towards the house.  
Door.  
Stairs.  
Bed.

 

Bringing his father into his arms was more difficult for him. All the anger that had brewed over the years, all the shouted words and exhausted gestures were nothing now, rendered useless by the cold form laying peacefully on the sheets. Sniper felt exhausted as he lifted the man into his arms, holding him delicately.  
He blinked once, and found himself outside. His father was in the grave, hands linked with his mother. They were smiling still, as if this was everything they could ever want. He took a moment to watch them, to pretend they were sleeping, the sweet nothings he heard swapped between them as a child now echoing in his ears.

 

It took all the effort in the world to pick up the shovel.


End file.
